


Beneath the Surface

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [30]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Friendship, Grieving John, Injured John, Love, M/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Nightmares, Recovery, War, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sherlock helps John deal with memories of the war, and the one time John helps Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightmare

(February 17th, 2010)

Sherlock frowned, fiddling with his microscope lens, adjusting the magnification, then wrinkled his nose in displeasure before giving a huffy sigh.

What he needed was some strong antimicrobial agent, but not something artificial like those household cleaners John employed that smelled of nothing but noxious chemicals. He'd have to have a talk with John about that, he thought, then reconsidered, because he could imagine that sort of conversation ending in John insisting he, Sherlock, do more cleaning.

He was not even sure where the cleaners were kept, so it was out of the question regardless. He had no intentions of finding out, because it was easier to claim ignorance when he was, in fact, genuinely ignorant. He was a genius. He had better things to do with his time than scrub counters or floors or toilets.

That was what other people were for.

Although, possibly, John would protest this. He had, Sherlock had established, an unusual propensity for stubbornness that occasionally put Sherlock in the mind of Mycroft, but in a good way. He hadn't considered before meeting John that Mycroft's obstinacy might be cast in a more favourable light. But only, of course, when it was not actually applied to his maddening older brother.

John seemed perplexed by this whole thing and Sherlock didn't understand why. He'd admitted to not getting on with Harry, hadn't he? It was the same principle, although Harry did not control vast resources and have blackmail material on large portions of the British government and probably large portions of other governments as well. Sherlock knew this, because he'd checked. She was quite dull, really, alcoholism aside.

He pulled the Petri dish from under the microscope's lens.

 _Well, nothing for it_ , he decided. It was crude but simple, as some of the best methods were.

He spat in it.

Human saliva had more than enough antimicrobial enzymes, organic ones, to do the trick, if he were correct in his assessments.

He was certain he was.

Sherlock set the dish down to let the microbes do their work and tilted his head from side to side, grimacing slightly when his neck cracked. What an unpleasant sound, even if it did ease some of the stiffness. He wondered what the medical reason behind this was and resolved to ask John. He would do so now, but the doctor was sleeping and seemed to have some sort of emotional investment in regular sleeping hours. Certainly he got exceptionally cranky if Sherlock woke him up at all hours for a case or an opinion or the answer to a puzzling question. But these things didn't wait on timetables, which is why Sherlock never kept to one. Life didn't wait on a timetable. Besides, who wanted to waste time sleeping?

Well, John, apparently.

He stood, grimacing again, and stretched his arms above his head, arching backwards, taking care not to fall. John had commented once that Sherlock's spine must be made of rubber, which was medically unsound and any doctor should know better. Like every other human spine, it was made of bone and nerves and blood vessels supported by muscles. John was somewhat overly fond of metaphors.

He filled himself a glass of water from the kitchen tap, drained it, then headed into the living room, glancing about. He'd left a single lamp on, more than enough to see by, and faint light from the street lamps outside filtered in through the windows, around the edges of the drapes. The sound of traffic was somewhat faded given the late – or early – hour, but ever present, as London never completely slept.

Sherlock pulled out his violin case and set in gently on the coffee table, flipping the silver latches and opening it, removing the bow. He cleaned it carefully, then set it back, moving to pick up the instrument when a sudden shout made him jerk back and snap his head up, eyes wide.

He was on his feet before he was aware of it, taking an instinctive step toward the windows in the dining room, but the shout came again, louder and more insistent this time, forming a word:

"No!"

Sherlock snapped his head toward the stairs – that had been John's voice.

"NO! _NO!_ "

Sherlock found himself oddly frozen, waiting to see what would happened. He knew John had nightmares, and had interrupted some previous nights with an occasional shout, but never more than one, and this seemed different in tone somehow.

He held his breath, but nothing more was forthcoming. Sherlock exhaled slowly; John appeared to have righted himself.

There was a wordless shout – a roar, something even Sherlock could clearly identify as pure anguish. He was taking the stairs three at a time without thinking, throwing open the door without any of the niceties of knocking John so insisted upon as John yelled again, cursing, his voice catching and breaking.

"No, please, no…" John moaned then, the fight gone out of his voice, and Sherlock crossed the room quickly, assessing his best course of action. Clambering onto the bed and grabbing John would probably result in Sherlock himself being seriously injured – shot if John's gun was anywhere within arm's reach – so he flicked on the lamp next to John's bed.

"John, wake up!" he said, surprised – stunned, really – to see tears on John's face. He hadn't known it was possible to cry in one's sleep but he filed that away as useless.

"No," John begged, covering his face with his hands, shaking his head. "No, no, no."

Carefully, lightly, so as not to startle him more than necessary, Sherlock put one hand on John's.

"John. Wake up. You're dreaming."

John shifted his hands, closing them hard around Sherlock's, startling the younger man into instinctively trying to pull back, but John held fast.

"John!" Sherlock snapped and John's eyes flew open suddenly, blinking against the light from the lamp, pupils dilated more than they needed to be, eyes blank, without comprehension. It took a moment before Sherlock actually recognized John in there, and the doctor started, staring at his flatmate, then realized he was gripping one of Sherlock's hands and let it go so suddenly that the lack of contact was almost painful as Sherlock's circulation returned to normal in his fingers.

"Sherlock? What?"

"You were having a nightmare. You were yelling."

"What– " John said again, then half sat up, propping himself on his left hand, raising his right hand to his face, pulling his fingers away and staring at them in surprise. He seemed suddenly flustered – more so – and swiped irately at his cheeks, as though embarrassed to have been caught crying. That was absurd, Sherlock thought. He'd been dreaming and was clearly not a lucid dreamer, so had no control over the content of his dreams.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

John looked around the room, as if to remind himself of where he was, then up at Sherlock, giving a brief nod.

"I– Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay." He closed his eyes, sitting up fully, leaning forward, the duvet bunching around his waist. John dropped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, just– war stuff," John sighed, then waved a hand. "It's all right. Didn't mean to bother you. Sorry."

Sherlock was surprised by the apology and surprised to find himself surprised. But surely John needing to be woken up from whatever terrifying dream he'd been having took precedence over a few minutes of violin playing he could easily pick up again now.

"Quite all right," Sherlock assured him.

John nodded, still not looking up. Sherlock straightened and walked toward the door, putting a hand on the handle to draw it closed behind him.

"Sherlock?" John said just before the younger man could do this. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"Thanks," John said.

Sherlock turned more fully and gave John a slightly puzzled glance.

"Of course," he replied. What else was there to do? Let John scream all night? That certainly wasn't productive, and they'd be lucky as it was if Mrs. Hudson wasn't up there within the next five minutes, demanding to know what was going on.

Sherlock pulled the door closed and went downstairs, getting his violin out, turning it quickly, and began to play. He had no cases to think about at the moment, but the music was relaxing nonetheless, and he felt his mind unwinding, able to better concentrate. He smiled when he thought of his mother and the hours they had shared doing this, and reminded himself to go round and visit her at the house one of these days. He did miss his playing companion occasionally.

After several minutes, he heard a familiar tread on the stairs and looked up with some surprise when John came into the living room. The doctor looked unaccustomedly tired, faint circles around his brown eyes, and he was somewhat paler than normal. Of course, he was losing the tan he'd gained in Afghanistan, but it was more subtle than that, and he looked drawn, weighted down.

He went into the kitchen and Sherlock heard the fridge opening and closing and then a faint snapping sound. He came back, carrying a beer, and Sherlock refrained from commenting. Harry may be an alcoholic, but John exhibited none of these tendencies, and Sherlock, as a former smoker and former drug user, ( _not_ drug addict, he was very clear about that, although the police saw somewhat less of a distinction) could tell the difference.

John sat in his chair, dislodging Sherlock's Union Jack pillow and tossing it onto the coffee table. He kicked his legs out in front of him and sipped his beer, closing his eyes. Sherlock kept playing; he wasn't about to stop just because John was there, and John didn't seem inclined to argue. If he needed company, then he would get music for company as well as Sherlock.

John stayed quiet, sipping his drink, keeping his eyes closed, and Sherlock noted that he was beginning to relax somewhat.

When there was a natural pause in the music, when Sherlock reached the end of what he'd been playing, John opened his eyes, regarding the genius with a somewhat clearer and lighter expression.

"Know any Beethoven?" he asked.

Sherlock snorted by way of reply and John flashed a smile, a brief one, but a real one nonetheless.

"Symphony number nine?" Sherlock suggested.

"Ode to joy," John replied, sipping his beer, expression thoughtful. "Yeah, I think I could do with some of that right now."

Sherlock nodded, set his bow to his strings, and began to play.


	2. News

(September 20th, 2010)

Sherlock let himself into the flat to see John standing in the middle of the living room, facing the telly, the remote control held so hard in his right hand that his knuckles were a vivid white, his left hand clutching his phone just as tightly. He was staring at the telly screen with such desperately intense concentration that Sherlock was certain the doctor hadn't heard him enter.

He shut the door carefully, and John checked his phone, letting out a growl that startled the detective. Sherlock set his shopping down – he'd remembered to get milk, so he was set for the next few months for shopping duties – and regarded John carefully, then the telly.

"… unconfirmed reports that the bombing in Kabul earlier today near the Sardar-e-Kabuli girls' high school has left several people dead, including students and British military personnel…"

Sherlock blinked, startled by the news; it was the first he'd heard of it.

"… from our correspondent on the ground, although lines of communication appear to be patchy, so we're not certain what our viewers will hear. Thomas Mathers is the BBC war correspondent in Kabul…"

"Come on!" John yelled at his phone.

"John," Sherlock said and John's head snapped up, his eyes blazing, but not with anger, with something bordering on panic.

"What's happened?" Sherlock asked.

John stared at him a moment, as though Sherlock were a complete stranger, then shook his head.

"I don't know," he said, but then negated his words by elaborating. "There was a bombing. In Kabul. Near a girl's school."

Sherlock nodded. He'd rather gathered that from the news report.

"Do you know anyone stationed there?" he enquired. John, he knew, had been in Helmand Province, in southern Afghanistan, where the situation was apparently less stable.

John stared at him a moment longer, then nodded, sinking down into his chair and tossing the remote control heedlessly on the coffee table so that it fell off and the battery hatch snapped open, one of the batteries tumbling out onto the floor. He didn't seem to notice, dropping his head into his right hand, his left hand still clutching the phone, which he shook gently, as if this might make it ring.

Sherlock righted the remote, putting the battery back, and set it aside.

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah. My old unit. Jesus. They were transferred there last month."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow; he thought he could recall something about this on John's blog now that it was mentioned. Had John blogged about it? Or had it been a comment from that Tricia Remsen woman who was one of his good mates? He couldn't recall, but it was not particularly important.

With a flash of surprise and dismay, he realized why John was checking his phone again.

He was waiting for news about his former army mates.

Waiting to hear if anyone had died.

"God, it's supposed to be _safer_ there!" John snapped, raking a hand through his hair. "What the hell? Dammit!"

He was more talking to himself, Sherlock surmised, than to his flatmate. John raised his head again, staring at the telly, listening intently to the news report, but the flash of his brown eyes told Sherlock quite clearly that he wasn't getting the information he wanted.

Sherlock picked up his shopping and went into the kitchen, setting it on the counter and pulling out the few goods they'd needed, such as more milk, some tea, and bread. These three things had required him to go to two different shops, because he was damned if he was buying bread at the grocer's when there was much better bakery bread to be had just down the block from that. And now he felt justified in getting John to do the shopping for at least the next two months, because Sherlock had gone to more than one store.

Occasionally, he considered availing himself of those shopping services that would do the errands for you, for a nice fee, of course, but it seemed too much like giving into Mycroft, somehow. In some round about way, his brother would take this as a victory that Sherlock was seeing reason and using his money for something it was meant to be used for.

As if he cared about the money.

He wondered if John would call Sarah now, and hopefully she would not come over here, because that was always a bit tedious.

But no, he remembered, Sarah had split up with John only four days previous.

How had he forgotten that so soon? Astonishing. Her presence seemed to have vanished altogether, and it appeared that John had barely noticed. Was this normal? Surely not. Sherlock had no experience in these messy emotional matters – precisely because they were messy and emotional – but most people were sentimental and easily attached to others.

But John wasn't upset about Sarah.

He was upset about his mates in Afghanistan, though.

Sherlock twitched his eyebrows upward; what did _that_ say about his relationship with Sarah? Not much, Sherlock considered.

"Argh, no!" John yelled and Sherlock glanced quickly over his shoulder to see his flatmate cursing at the telly. "Not the bloody weather, I don't care! Go back! I need to know what happened!"

Sherlock abandoned the bread on the counter and went back into the living room, where John was pacing now, after having taken a moment to shut off the telly and pitch the remote at it.

"You'll break that!" Sherlock snapped and John spun to face him, expression seething.

"Who cares?" he snapped back, raking a hand through his hair again, making it stand on end despite its short length. Sherlock rescued the remote again and fixed it, watching John pace, his movements short, agitated. He glared at his phone again, then jumped when it rang.

"Hello?" John said quickly. "Tee?"

Sherlock saw his flatmate catch himself on the arm of his chair and instinctively moved forward but John held up his hand, shaking his head, his eyes no longer focused on the flat.

"Oh thank God," he muttered, sinking into his chair, leaning forward. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock stepped back into the kitchen, but kept an ear on the conversation, which seemed very one-sided on the other end, so John wasn't doing much but murmuring "mm-hmm" at intervals, although the relief was evident in his voice.

Then there was a sudden silence.

Sherlock glanced back to see John leaning back his head chair, head tilted all the way back so his face was turned to the ceiling, eyes screwed shut in denial. He licked his lips and shook his head, once.

"No," he whispered. "Oh, no." There was another pause as the conversation apparently continued on the other end. "Of course, I'll go. Of course. Yeah. Yeah, you too, Tricia. Yes, tomorrow, anytime, please. Take care."

He rung off and leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Sherlock filled and plugged in the kettle and fished two mugs out of the cupboard, filling them with small portions of milk and sugar and dropping a teabag in each. When he returned with the full mugs, John was sitting in the same position, staring blankly at his phone, his head still bowed. He looked up after a moment when Sherlock stopped in front of him and seemed surprised at the tea.

"Oh. Thanks."

Sherlock nodded, sitting down in his own chair. John put his phone on one knee and cradled the mug between his palms, staring down at it, the steam wafting gently toward him.

"Your friend, is she all right?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up and passed a hand over his mouth.

"Tricia? Yeah, she's okay, she wasn't there. It –" he cut himself off and sat back, shifting his tea to one hand, closing his eyes. "They were just on patrol. That's all. God, and those girls, they just want to go to school. Why is that so _bad_? Jesus."

He leaned his head back again and Sherlock noticed how tense and drained he was.

"Did you know them?"

John gave something that may have been a harsh, mirthless laugh.

"Yeah. Yes, I knew them. All three of them. And now they're bloody dead."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this, but this was, of course, a reality of war. Probably best not to say that, though.

"I should be there," John said, opening his eyes and raising his head, turning his gaze toward the dining room windows.

Sherlock sipped his tea silently. John hadn't touched his yet, but he was still holding it, like a lifeline.

"I could have done something!" John shouted suddenly. "Dammit, I could have helped! What bloody good am I here? I work in a clinic with patients that have colds and sprained ankles and ear infections! I'm bloody useless! There, I could be helping people, _really_ helping and here? I do nothing!"

"That is not true," Sherlock said, mildly annoyed at this assessment.

"What?" John snapped. "Yesterday I spent half the day prescribing antibiotics for common bacterial infections and the other half trying to convince people they didn't need antibiotics! I'm trained as a bloody combat surgeon! Tell me how this is useful!"

"I can't speak for your job, John, but you're quite a valuable asset on cases."

"Those are _your_ cases, Sherlock. _You_ solve them. I just hang about and tell you how long it's been since someone died and if they smelled of alcohol!"

Sherlock sighed.

"Last week, we'd not have caught that woman's killer if you hadn't pointed out that she'd been diabetic. It would have taken at least twenty-four hours before the morgue reported insulin overdose as the cause of death, and the homecare nurse would have been able to find another victim."

John blinked, then stared at Sherlock.

"And knowing approximate time since death is _not_ insignificant information, John. It can often be one of the most relevant details. If you help prevent a murder, or murders, how is this being useless? Of course, potential victims who don't become victims can't thank you, because they don't know what might have happened, but it's not thanks you're after. You're a doctor. You're doing what doctors do. You're saving lives."

John kept staring at him, but this time, with surprise etched on his features. Had he not thought of this? It was quite obvious to Sherlock. For every murderer they apprehended, especially the serial ones, untold numbers of people did not meet violent and untimely deaths.

"Perhaps you aren't stitching them up, and perhaps you can't help with events there," he nodded at the telly, "But are the people here any less deserving of your assistance than the people in Afghanistan?"

John opened his mouth to reply, then frowned and closed it again, and took a mechanical sip of his tea – his first, Sherlock noted.

"I am sorry about your friends," Sherlock said, not because he really was, but because he knew _something_ about social niceties, no matter what Mycroft or John or Lestrade thought. "But here or there, you're not useless. You're actually making a great deal of difference, even if it isn't apparent to you. You should think about that more."

John stared at him a moment longer, then shook his head, not, Sherlock noted, to negate what had just been said, but as if to return himself to the present. He was silent for another moment, staring at his tea, tapping his right leg absently. He glanced toward the windows again, then back at his tea, then back at Sherlock, then gave a quick, almost huffy, sigh.

"Never thought of it that way," he muttered, returning his gaze to his tea again, which was apparently fascinating, given the way he kept staring at it.

"Clearly," Sherlock replied.

John raised his mug again, but met Sherlock's gaze over the rim.

"Thanks," he said gruffly, and sipped his tea.


	3. Shoulder

(December 18th, 2010)

Sherlock stirred in the middle of the night at a soft sound and sighed, burrowing his face into his pillow, letting himself drift back to sleep. It was rare that he felt so tired – he'd trained himself to go on less sleep than most people, and had naturally required less most of his life anyway, except possibly in infancy, which he didn't remember – but for the past six weeks, and he and John had been wearing each other out quite thoroughly.

He smiled a sleepy smile and snuggled further under the duvet.

There was no one quite like John.

Sherlock's only other long-term partner, Charles, had been utterly different. Not least because, despite being lovers for a year and a half, they'd been nothing more than sexual partners. They had sometimes gone weeks without seeing one another and those days would slide past without being noticed or remarked upon. He'd appreciated Charles, of course, who had been a year or so older than him and French and more experienced. Sherlock had by no means been naïve by that point, but a handful of teenage dalliances, while enthusiastic, had not been exceptionally sophisticated.

And there had been other people since Charles had gone back to France without fuss or even really a farewell, but only one night here or there, and Sherlock had always made a deliberate point of observing each man carefully beforehand, assessing, very accurately, if they seemed the type to take unnecessary risks, to have contracted something after refusing to take proper precautions, if they gave any indication that they would ignore any possible symptoms rather than seek treatment. In short, if they were idiots. He'd walked away from more than one potential interlude because of that possibility. He was not about to put himself at risk for a brief encounter, because it was unnecessary and he hadn't pursued these because he needed them, but because he'd wanted them. After all, he was perfectly capable of looking after his own needs, if required.

But John.

He smiled again, still half asleep, ignoring the small noises John was making – dreaming, probably. They washed over Sherlock innocently and he let them slide past.

John was fascinating, unique, astonishing, perfect.

Sherlock had occasionally wondered, academically, what the fascination was with falling in love with another person, if only because so many other people seemed to invested in it that he'd deduced it held some sort of appeal.

Now he knew.

And he remembered the expression on John's face, that absolutely shock and amazement and astonished joy when Sherlock had first mentioned that he loved John, which had taken him by surprise – John's reaction, not the words – because surely he'd _known_?

But hearing them said back had settled something in Sherlock, something he hadn't known he'd been waiting for.

And there were so many other benefits! Astounding, really.

For one thing, Mycroft had no more cameras or bugs in the flat. Sherlock's sex-in-every-room stratagem had paid off, in more ways than one. He smiled a sleepy evil smile at the thought of Mycroft panicking and having all the listening devices removed. His brother may be a lot of things, but he probably wasn't a voyeur. At least when it came to his family's sexual activities. Some things were best left not even to the imagination.

John made another noise and Sherlock's eyes fluttered and he sighed, shifting his hand onto John's stomach, pushing the t-shirt out of the way slightly, absently rubbing his partner's abdomen, feeling the sensation of skin and defined muscle against his palm and fingers. He felt the muscles twitch and gave a smile, which then faded fast, because the involuntary movements seemed a bit too tense.

John shifted, not away or toward Sherlock, but almost twisting, and made another noise.

A moan.

_Not_ the happy type of moan he was used to hearing from John now.

Sherlock blinked himself awake and heard John breathing, too hard and too heavy to be normal for sleep. He blinked again, trying to get his pupils to dilate more quickly in the near-darkness, and John moaned, arching his back and Sherlock saw a vague movement, John's head shifting against his pillows, shaking once, left to right.

He had his left arm up, bent at the elbow so that his upper arm rested on the mattress between them, and was now pulling his head to the right, shifting his legs restlessly beneath the sheets and the duvet, having half-dislodged the blankets from his body.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his voice.

John gave a sound that was halfway between a groan and a whimper and the uncomfortable combination of these made Sherlock push himself onto his right forearm, straining to see in the darkness, urging his eyes to adjust more quickly. The muscles in John's neck were working, his jaw clenched, his eyes screwed shut.

"John!" Sherlock whispered, rather more urgently. He moved his hand from John's stomach, up his partner's chest, lightly, and John tried to pull away from him, making a pained "uhnh" sound.

_Damn!_ Sherlock thought, tossing aside the covers, realizing what was going on. This wasn't a dream, or not entirely. He hurried into the bathroom and flicked on the light, wincing against the sudden brightness but not slowing down, pulling open the medicine cabinet and shuffling through it. He came up with an empty box of thermal patches and cursed, the crouched down and looked in the cupboards under the sink, but the only patches in there were his own nicotine patches. He stood again, scanning the medicine cabinet for something stronger than ibuprofen, but they had nothing – John hated taking strong painkillers for shoulder and Sherlock had no reason to need them. He snagged the ibuprofen bottle and filled a glass of water, then hurried back into the bedroom, setting both of these things on his bedside table before climbing back onto the bed.

John was still straining against himself, against the pain, in his sleep. Sherlock wondered if it was better than his partner hadn't woken, but he would, soon, if this kept up. Sherlock set his own jaw, disliking what he had to do, but John had told him this worked best.

He shifted himself so he was sitting cross-legged, a more stable position, and closed both of his hands over John's left shoulder.

John awoke with a shout and tried instinctively to get away but Sherlock held fast.

John hollered, not anything with real words, not anything directed at Sherlock, and fell back, gasping for breath, eyes wide in the semi-darkness.

Sherlock tightened his grip slowly, easing John into it. The doctor moaned, shaking his head, his right hand reaching over to grasp one of Sherlock's wrists lightly, ineffectively.

"Stop, stop," he pled, his voice laced with pain and remnants of sleep. "Oh, God, Sherlock, that hurts!"

"I know," Sherlock muttered, clenching his teeth against his instinctive reaction to draw back, to not cause John pain, and tightened his grip more. John cried out, shifting his legs, trying to push himself away. "Hold still! Do your counted breathing!"

John twisted his head away, still fighting, and Sherlock wondered what else he was fighting, if it was just the pain.

The weather was probably responsible for aggravating the injury, he thought dimly. They'd been predicting a major snowstorm, and the light around the edges of the curtains was somewhat brighter and yet duller, indicating a low-hanging sky and falling snow.

He leaned forward as much as he could.

"John, stop it," he said gently. "If I let go, it will be worse. Breathe."

John turned his head toward Sherlock, teeth clenched, breathing hard, unproductively.

"Nngh…" he moaned, shaking his head, but keeping his eyes on Sherlock.

"I know," Sherlock said. "You're out of thermal patches, I'm sorry. And we're getting a storm."

John blinked and Sherlock tightened his grip again, minutely, judging that he was holding as tightly as he could to offset the pain without creating more. John screwed his eyes shut, sucking in a deep, ragged breath, and Sherlock listened with concern, but John held it as long as he could, then hissed it out slowly between clenched teeth.

"Good," Sherlock said, nodding encouragingly. "Good."

He wondered why this storm had caused a worse flare-up than normal, but the reactions of old injuries never had to make sense. How irritating that these could command control over the mind, the body, when it should be the other way around.

"White Christmas," John gasped, jaw still locked shut, lips barely moving.

"Possibly," Sherlock agreed. This seemed irrelevant, but was probably a mental displacement activity.

"Always liked those," John hissed. He kept his right hand wrapped around Sherlock's left wrist, moaning when he dropped his left hand onto the mattress. Sherlock shifted his sitting position somewhat but keeping his grip steady.

John breathed in slowly, with effort, Sherlock could tell, then exhaled again. Sherlock adjusted his own breathing to keep time with John's, nodding again. John locked his eyes with Sherlock's, both of them more visible to one another now that their vision had adjusted to the low lighting.

By degrees, John began to relax, but not nearly enough, and Sherlock could feel the jump and pulse of muscle and the shift of scar tissue under his fingers in the old wound. More often than not, John's exhales were hisses, and a small moan slipped out now and then, making the doctor arch and shift uncomfortably. Sherlock felt his hands and shoulders begin to go numb from holding the same tensed position for so long, but ignored this as irrelevant. He counted his breath along with John's, to make sure his partner was keeping even inhalations and exhalations, and then gradually was able to decrease the pressure his right hand was exerting.

"I have ibuprofen and water," Sherlock said reaching behind him, twisting somewhat, but ensuring that his left hand stayed on John's shoulder, pressing just as hard as it had been. He snagged the bottle and propped it on John's stomach, holding it tightly. This position meant his right arm was snaked underneath his left, stretched uncomfortably across his body, but he ignored his. John worked the cap off with his right hand and Sherlock tapped three pills into John's palm. He put the bottle aside and passed John the glass of water. John popped the pills into his mouth and then took the water, downing it in one large gulp.

Sherlock put the glass aside again and returned his right hand to John's shoulder.

They stayed that way for some time, until John began to relax somewhat more convincingly. Sherlock had him sit up, slowly, and removed the t-shirt, carefully, but still eliciting groans and winces.

He set to massaging John's shoulder, very cautiously, very lightly, knowing it would help, because he was not a stranger to this even after only six weeks, although it had never been quite this bad. Usually, if anything, it was just achy when Sherlock did this, and sometimes it didn't bother John at all, and those massage sessions usually turned into something else quite quickly.

That wasn't about to happen now – he knew with this level of pain, John wouldn't enjoy shagging, and Sherlock wasn't interested in causing real pain. He paused in his ministrations, though, moving his hands gently to kiss John's shoulder where the scar was, only lightly.

Their first night together, he'd kissed and licked the scar carefully, and John had moaned in appreciation, and later told Sherlock that no one had ever done that, no one had elicited desire from touching his old wound. That Sherlock was the only person who seemed unafraid of it.

He went back to massaging it until John's head dropped forward and he began to nod off. Sherlock let go of his shoulder with one hand, wrapping his arm around John's torso, keeping him from falling forward. John raised his head and made a sleepy sound and Sherlock lay him down, very carefully on his back. John hissed and winced, but it had none of the urgency or potency it had had earlier, and he settled his head onto his pillow with a sigh, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock stretched out beside him, on his right side, and closed his left hand over John's shoulder again, more lightly this time. John sighed again, then raised his head, turning it slightly toward Sherlock, who leaned in for a kiss, their lips moving gently together. He could feel the buried desire in John for something more, and felt it reflected in himself, but it wasn't going to happen, not just then.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock whispered. "It will help. You'll feel better in the morning."

John managed a tired smile and a nod, his eyes drifting shut. He lowered his head again, turning his face slightly toward Sherlock's hand, and gradually fell asleep, his breathing evening out and deepening. Sherlock kept his hand where it was, kept the pressure constant, until John was fully asleep.

Then he slowly and carefully let go, eyes on John's face, watching for any hints of returning pain or discomfort. There was a flash of distaste across John's sleeping features, but probably at the loss of contact rather than from pain. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist, feeling a gentle tingling in his shoulder at the welcome change of position, and saw John's expression settle again. He kissed his partner's neck lightly, then his jaw, then his ear, before settling down and closing his own eyes, waiting for sleep to reclaim him as well.


	4. Tricia

* * *

(August 25th, 2012)

"Ugh," John protested.

"Ugh?" Sherlock repeated, lifting his head somewhat, angling his gaze so he could see his husband in the pale morning light that managed to creep through along the edges of the drapes, promising another hot day. "Your assessment of this situation is 'ugh'?"

"It's a hundred degrees in here!" John complained. "Why are you sleeping all over me?"

"It is not a hundred degrees, John, because if it were, our blood would quite literally be boiling, but we'd have died some time ago from hyperthermia. It's at best hmm, twenty-four, twenty-five degrees."

"That's still disgusting," John said. "We need a fan. Or an AC unit. Anyway, you haven't answered my question."

"How else would I sleep?" Sherlock asked.

John shifted as much as he could in Sherlock's embrace, which Sherlock had learned quite quickly very early on was comfortable and kept John where he was, which was precisely what Sherlock wanted. Even though John was sometimes displeased with the difference in their heights, Sherlock found it useful on occasion. In doing this, for example. He could sleep with one arm and leg around John and his chin resting on the top of John's head and it was utterly comfortable for both of them.

When John didn't whine and moan about the heat.

Certainly in the winter he didn't mind the body heat. Yes, granted, it was summer and they were in a heat wave, but John was complaining unnecessarily, given how much he also complained about Sherlock's tendency to avoid sleeping altogether, insofar as it was possible.

"On your back? Not all over me?" John suggested.

"No," Sherlock replied, putting his head back down, snuggling closer to John, who gave a groan that was mostly feigned.

Sherlock felt there was little point in sleeping if he wasn't going to enjoy it. And he wouldn't enjoy it if he could not snuggle up with John.

_Although,_ he considered _, if we got an air conditioning unit, John wouldn't complain._

There were benefits to not having one. The first and foremost, from Sherlock's point of view, was that John was sleeping naked. So was he. He catalogued the sensation of skin against skin – not a sensation he was unused to, of course, but it always bore evaluation – then considered they could still sleep this way under the blankets if they had an air conditioner.

"We'll go round to the shops and buy one today," he said.

John twisted his head slightly so he was looking back and up at Sherlock as much as he could.

"We?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm. I'll go with you."

"And what's that going to cost me?"

"The air conditioning unit, John. Obviously."

"What if I nick your debit card?" John asked with a grin.

"Hmm," Sherlock said contemplatively, tracing his fingers not-at-all absently up John's chest, brushing lightly over the scar before settling back down to stroke John's lower belly. He felt a faint shudder and heard a quick, quiet inhalation and grinned triumphantly to himself. "I could think of some suitable punishment I'm sure."

"I bet you could," John said, and his voice was only a touch thicker than normal.

"Although, preferably, something that would not also be punishment for me," Sherlock pointed out.

John shifted again in Sherlock's embrace, trying to get Sherlock's hand to move lower, but Sherlock just shifted as well, moving his hand back up somewhat. John gave a small disappointed sigh.

"So I suppose you not playing the violin is right out?"

Sherlock stopped his absent caressing and smacked John's stomach lightly but with feeling and John gave a laughing yelp.

"You've always said I'm quite good," Sherlock pouted.

John laughed.

"You are," he assured his husband. "At a great many things."

"Well," Sherlock huffed. "Good to know I'm appreciated for _something._ Best behave, John, or else I may well decide that I desperately need to continue my work that I left off last night. In fact…"

He began to draw himself away and John reached back with surprising speed and dexterity for his left arm, wrapping it around Sherlock's waist, fingertips digging into the muscles in the small of Sherlock's back.

"Oh. Well. If you insist," Sherlock said with a mock sigh.

"I do," John said.

Sherlock chuckled and leaned down, placing feather-light kisses on John's left shoulder, along the scar. John gave a contented sigh, shifting again.

"You seem to have lost your concern about being hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well," John said, rolling onto his back and Sherlock shifted, giving him room to move. "It's hot in here and I'm going to be hot and sweaty no matter what. May as well be comfortable while doing it."

Sherlock grinned and leaned down for a kiss.

"Excellent plan, John," he said. "I wholeheartedly agree."

John laughed, and returned the kiss.

* * *

John poured them each a coffee while Sherlock fried up some eggs and bacon – apparently, the warm weather didn't stop John from wanting a hot breakfast. John dumped two sugars in Sherlock's coffee and some milk and one sugar in his own, then slid the mug toward Sherlock.

He took his own mug and went into the living room while Sherlock pulled out two plates and some cutlery, then shut off the stove. He divided the food onto two plates and moved the frying pan to the back burner, tossing the spatula in the sink, and heard John's phone buzz.

_That'd better not be the surgery_ , Sherlock thought, frowning to himself. But John didn't actually say anything in response, so it must be a text message. Sherlock turned to pick up the plates when he heard the sharp shatter of John's coffee mug breaking on the floor.

He spun fast, food forgotten, and took two steps into the living room to see John standing, gripping his phone, surrounded by the broken mug and coffee that had splattered onto the rug and was pooling on the hardwood floor.

John was sheet white and Sherlock managed to catch him the moment his legs started to buckle, grunting under the sudden weight, adjusting his grip to keep John standing long enough for Sherlock to ensure he himself was properly balanced. Then he eased John into his chair, alarmed by the sudden harshness of John's breathing, the way John leaned forward automatically, head between his legs, hands still clutching his phone so tightly that the tendons on the back of his hand jumped out, the way his shoulders heaved.

"John," Sherlock said, keeping his voice calm. "John. What's happened?"

John shook his head, breathing through gritted teeth by the sound of it, and Sherlock crouched in front of him, wrapping his own hands around his husband's, then moving one of them almost immediately to the left side of John's head, lacing into his short hair.

"John."

John shook his head again, whether in denial or to somehow answer Sherlock, the detective was uncertain. He could see enough of John's face to tell it was still ghastly pale and his breathing was more than a little concerning – he sounded on the verge of hyperventilating.

"John, breathe," he ordered, shifting his stance somewhat so he could move his right hand from John's head to his upper back, making slow circles.

John managed a gasping nod, sucking in a deep breath, but letting it out too fast, drawing another one far too quickly. Sherlock put his hand on the back of John's neck, stroking John's skin with his thumb, watching in with no small amount of apprehension.

He tugged on the phone clutched between John's hands and John made a growling, protesting noise, laced with something – agony, denial? – and held fast. Sherlock relaxed and changed his grip, curling his fingers around John's, loosening his hold gently. As if realizing the phone wasn't being yanked away from him, but was being requested, John released his death grip on it slowly, just enough for Sherlock to pull it out.

He was expecting the text to be bad news – he'd already run through a list of possibilities. If something had happened to John's mother, it would be Harry texting him, but it was unlikely to be Harry in trouble, because Meredith would call, not text. But it was also more likely that Harry would call in an emergency rather than text, hopefully not drunk, because she'd been doing well, but very probably hysterical and sobbing. She tended toward dramatics.

But he'd already settled on someone from Afghanistan, and was cold with the possibility that it was John's friend Tricia Remsen, because Sherlock realized abruptly that if she died, he had no idea how John was going to take it. Other than very, very badly. He set his jaw and read the message, only to have his trepidation flash rapidly to shock.

_Confirmed Sept 7. Itinerary below. -T_

It was an email, not a text message, from Remsen herself.

With her return flight itinerary from Kabul to London.

Not grief, Sherlock realized.

Relief.

"Oh my God," John managed. "Oh my God."

Sherlock put the phone back in John's hands and his husband redoubled his grip on it immediately.

"Oh my God," he repeated, his voice shaking and Sherlock felt him shudder once, twice, the muscles in his back and neck tensing hard under Sherlock's hand.

"John, breathe," Sherlock said. "Slowly."

John nodded, a sharp movement, but didn't obey, his breathing too shallow, too rapid. Sherlock shifted closer to him and was startled when John suddenly bundled his arm tightly around the detective, pulling him close, pinning him so that Sherlock had to fight for balance, not to collapse against John or, worse, fall backwards and topple both of them.

He managed to right himself and returned the embrace, carefully, settling his chin on John's shoulder, lightly, so as not to hurt it.

"John, you've got to slow your breathing or you'll hyperventilate. It's all right. She's coming back."

John managed a nod, then finally sucked in a slow breath.

"Hold it!" Sherlock admonished. "Now let it out."

He felt the breath exhaled against his chest, felt John shudder with the effort.

Astonishing, really, that relief could be just as debilitating as grief.

Maybe more so?

All of the hope John had never let himself really feel, all of the pent up anxieties and uncertainties and possibilities and waiting had been released in one moment. He'd never let himself really believe she would come back, Sherlock realized. Because it was easier that way if she didn't.

Did he feel that way about all of his friends who remained overseas?

It must be exhausting.

Practical. But exhausting.

"Oh my God. Jesus," John said, his voice muffled by Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock wove a hand into John's hair, keeping the other hand on his back, listening intently to John's breathing, which was still too fast, but not as bad, still being hissed out through clenched teeth. He let his hands track the movement of muscles, noting the moment they began to relax, then tense again, then relax a bit more.

"Oh my God," John muttered again, seeming stuck on this phrase. Sherlock nodded lightly against his husband's shoulder, more for John's sake than in actual agreement. John stayed still awhile longer, his breathing slowing down somewhat, then his shoulders shook but it was laughter, a relieved, grateful chuckle.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then raised his head. Sherlock pulled back enough to see him, and was reassured by the smile tugging at John's lips, the brightness in John's brown eyes. John closed his eyes then, resting his forehead against Sherlock's.

"Oh my God, Sherlock. Thank God. Thank God."

Sherlock did not bother pointing out that he himself was an atheist and John was just as good as. John still used the curses and invocations with which he'd grown up. It was a habit Sherlock had noted in other atheists that did not signal a return to religion or spirituality, but a simple lack of any other way of expressing relief or apprehension or dismay.

John chuckled again, his breath warm on Sherlock's skin. They stayed that way for several minutes, until John rubbed his face with one hand, the motion not at all erasing the smile that stretched across his lips, that crinkled around the edges of his brown eyes when he opened them again.

"Do you think breakfast's gone cold?" he asked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It can be reheated. We do have a microwave."

"And you know how to use it, do you?" John asked.

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Yes, John, I know how to use it. It's simple enough that even someone with my staggering intellect can figure it out."

John grinned, eyes still shining.

"Then what are you waiting for?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again but dislodged himself carefully, moving toward the kitchen, but John snagged his left hand, pressing Sherlock's knuckles to his lips. Sherlock paused and looked down and John turned his hand over, kissing his palm. Sherlock bent down, catching John's lips in a soft kiss, feeling all of the relief that washed through John, draining the tension from his muscles. He released his husband, pressing his lips to John's forehead for a lingering moment, then went into the kitchen to reheat their morning meals.


	5. Annivesary

(October 16th, 2012)

If he'd known that shooting and killing a notorious and dangerous criminal would create so much blasted paperwork, Sherlock may have reconsidered. Perhaps shot him in the knee, or something.

But no, think of the trial. It was an appropriate word, because if James Moriarty had been taken to court, Sherlock's life would have been just that. A trial.

And he knew full well that if he hadn't shot the man in the head, Moriarty would have found some way to slip away again, to disappear, to vanish as if made of mist, and he'd have been protected by his associates, his money, his connections.

And more people would have died, most likely. If he'd been able to detonate all of the explosives he'd set, not just the people on the Waterloo Bridge, including Sherlock himself, who were too close to the car that had been rigged.

But the entirety of the Westminster Bridge.

He should have known, or suspected. That it wouldn't be that simple. That Moriarty wouldn't focus solely on Sherlock, no, nor on Sam. That Sam wouldn't be that much of a distraction – Sherlock repressed a shudder – that more could have happened, that it could have been so much worse.

As it was, only one person had died, and that was Moriarty himself.

Oh, yes, Interpol and the police were getting ready to announce that Sam Waters was dead as well. Sherlock knew this, even without having been told, because it was obvious after ten days, ten media-frenzied days in which he found himself wishing the blasted royal family would do something – _anything_ – to get the papers back on their normal track. He felt he could barely leave his flat, but at least Mycroft had been useful in keeping the reporters away, but that wouldn't stop them from accosting him if they saw him. He went everywhere by cab, sent John to run nearby errands (which he would do anyway), used back entrances whenever possible, avoided the Yard at all costs, in no small part because there were a number of people there who were very upset about Sam Waters dying.

As though Sherlock was responsible.

As though Sam was really dead.

Perhaps Sam was, yes, all right. Because Sam had just been an alias, really. But Gabriel Mitchell, Sherlock was certain, was alive. Probably not well, probably not even close to well, but alive. He hadn't seen Veronique, nor heard any whisper of her, despite the sharp watch kept by his homeless network and his myriad other contacts, the ones even Mycroft barely knew about, so she was likely to have left the country.

If she was gone, it was because Sam had been moved. And if Sam had been moved, it meant Sam was alive.

There would be some bloody staged funeral, though, which Sherlock had no intentions of attending.

The cab stopped in front of his flat, and he paid the fare, hurrying out. He'd met Lestrade, not at the Yard, at one of their favourite haunts from the old days, before Sherlock had actually begun working for him on a consulting basis, when Lestrade had first known the detective and had begun asking for his opinion, his help. Back when Lestrade insisted on paying Sherlock small sums for his time. Sherlock had taken the money, taken the cases, such as they were. Lestrade would come with a thin file and a brief run-down of what they were stuck against, and Sherlock would give him ideas, avenues of investigation. He'd kept at it, even though it was tedious and he had no access to crime scenes, because he could see quite clearly that Lestrade would eventually want to give him this access, want his help to be more than a quick glance at some case notes.

Now it seemed there was always some bloody form to sign or Lestrade was worried about Sherlock's _reactions_ , wanting to ensure Sherlock wasn't moping about or weeping or some such nonsense. Not much point in that, because Sam wasn't dead, and even if he had been, there'd still be no point. It was not as though it would have brought him back.

He unlocked the door, casting a quick eye around, but the street was fairly deserted. He'd noted from the sidewalk that there was one lights on in the flat that he could see, a lamp in the living room, so John was home, at least. So was Mrs. Hudson – he could hear her telly as he locked the door behind him.

He paused on the stairs, inhaling deeply and slowly. There was a lingering touch of something in the air, something feminine. Sherlock sniffed again and identified two things: perfume and citrus shampoo. A subtle perfume, not the more cloying kind that Mrs. Hudson preferred, and the shampoo did not have the stronger chemical smell his landlady's had, so it wasn't for any sort of treated hair.

He was familiar with these smells now, after a short time. Tricia was there.

Well, fair enough, he had no real complaints about that, although he did often prefer to have John to himself. But if it had to be anyone, she was the best choice.

He climbed the stairs and put his key in the door, then frowned at the lack of noise coming from the other side. He'd expected conversation – when John and Tricia got going, they could keep up the swapping of tales and the memories and the laughter all night, but there was simply silence, of a tone and quality that told him they _were_ there, but not speaking.

He opened the door and stepped inside, keeping quiet himself, uncertain as to why.

They weren't in the living room, even though that was where the single light was on. Sherlock shut the door gently, taking a few steps into the flat, and saw them in the dining room, sitting across from one another at the table. John was sitting in his normal place and Tricia was sitting where Sherlock normally sat, which was mildly annoying, but he dismissed this immediately when he realized she was crying.

Not sobbing or anything noisy and melodramatic, no, just silently, staring at the table, John watching her. There was a nearly empty bottle of gin between them and John was holding Tricia's left hand in his right, their arms stretched across the table, both of them squeezing so tightly their knuckles were bone white. Tricia had her right hand wrapped around a battered blue tin mug and there was a similar one sitting in front of John. Sherlock had never seen these before.

Almost absently, Tricia reached up and wiped her cheeks. John turned his head, meeting Sherlock's gaze, and Sherlock was surprised to see vivid pain, grief, in his husband's expression. He stopped, narrowing his eyes somewhat in confusion, trying to recall any news reports from that day about British soldiers being injured or killed in Afghanistan, but could not.

John didn't say anything or make any gestures, but Sherlock understood quite clearly from the brief eye contact that he was being asked to leave.

This shocked him, and he had a moment of innate resistance, standing his ground, because this was _his_ flat, too, but it was not personal, no. They did not dislike his presence, but needed time alone.

And, despite all of his intentions to the contrary, he actually liked Tricia.

And he loved John.

Sherlock gave a brief nod and removed his coat and scarf, then silently climbed the stairs to the spare bedroom, pulling out his phone as he did so. He settled onto his old bed, which they'd moved up here nearly two years ago, and checked the news websites but came up with nothing regarding any recent troubles with British forces in Afghanistan.

Then he realized the date.

_Oh_ , he thought. Three years to the day since John had been shot.

But surely not? Because, yes, Tricia had been his surgeon and she was as good as his sister, but John was _alive_ , and it had been three years, so how could it be so upsetting? John was downstairs sitting right across from her, after all. Sherlock could imagine that, at the time, it must have been stressful, but surely not after this long?

Not to mention that both of them were safely back in London, far removed from the possibility of coming under attack again, of facing the same sort of situation.

And it didn't explain the look on John's face.

Sherlock shifted his position on the bed, sitting with his long legs over one side, holding his phone in his hands between his knees. He pursed his lips in displeasure, realizing how poorly it sat with him to see that sort of expression on his husband's face and then have to leave him down there.

He chewed on his lower lip, impatience flaring in him.

He did _not_ like to be kept away from John.

He forced himself to check his website, to check John's blog, to check his email, to check the weather, to check every single thing he could think of while waiting for the time to pass.

To keep himself from going back downstairs.

After some time, he heard the murmur of voices for a few minutes and both of them moving about the flat, then the door opening. There were more murmurs and two sets of footsteps went down to the front door, and one came back up. Sherlock headed back downstairs a minute after John had returned and locked the door behind him, and found his husband standing near one of the dining room windows, looking out. Not down at the street, not watching Tricia leave, just straight out, vaguely, not really seeing the city spread out around him.

"John," Sherlock said gently.

John turned and met Sherlock's gaze, his lips twitching into something that may have been a smile, but was a pale shadow of one at best, nowhere near even reaching his eyes. Sherlock crossed the flat to stand beside him, not too close. John folded his arms and sighed, looking back out the window.

"You know, it wasn't just me," he commented after a moment of silence.

"What wasn't?"

"Three years ago. When I got shot. It wasn't just me who got shot."

He shook his head, eyes still distant, expression still pinched but somehow absent.

_Ah,_ Sherlock thought. He'd never considered it before. It had never occurred to him to do so. It hadn't mattered to him and John had never raised the issue. It was only important that John had been injured, because, to Sherlock, John was the only one who mattered.

But not to John, no. Sherlock reprimanded himself for not having taken this into account, what seemed so obvious now, but which would have been so trivial if it had crossed his mind before this moment.

"Who else?" he asked.

"Three people – but, Jamie. McTavish. He was," John drew in a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. "He was a mechanic. In our unit. And he was our friend."

Sherlock kept his gaze on John's face, watching carefully. He had never seen this much distance in his husband's face. Never seen John so obviously not _here_ but _there._ Distracted, all of the time, yes, John was good at getting distracted – and at being a distraction, a wonderful, maddening, delicious, tantalizing distraction.

This was different.

"He never even– I doubt he ever even knew he'd been hit. Through the neck. Dead. Just died. Instantly." John's lips gave another twitch. "I suppose that's a mercy."

Sherlock agreed, privately; better to go quickly and without pain than messily and with it, but he sensed John wouldn't want to hear this. He'd gotten much better at reading John, at understanding him, so kept quiet.

"I didn't even know, not really, until I got back here. I was on so much morphine. Nothing made sense. I could hardly stay awake most of the time. And they shipped me out less than seventy-two hours after I was stabilized. I barely remember. But I found out when I got back here, when I was more lucid, but it was too late. They'd already sent him home. They'd already had the funeral. In Edinburgh."

He sighed again, rubbing the right side of his face with his right hand.

"And Tricia– she had no idea. She operated on me, waited with me in recovery until I woke up, until I was moved to the ward, and it was obvious I was going to pull through. Then she went to find him. To tell him I'd be all right. Almost eight bloody hours, Sherlock. And she had no idea. And she –"

John cut himself off again, catching his lower lip with his teeth.

"Ah," Sherlock said softly.

John shifted his eyes to his husband.

"No, not _ah_ ," he said. "They never had the chance to be _ah_. They were headed down that road, but just barely. Just barely. And then–" He shook his head, turning his gaze back to the window. "Then I was here and she was there and Jamie was dead."

And Sherlock understood.

Tricia had only just come back in September. This marked the first time, then, that they'd been together on the anniversary of their friend's death.

Too sentimental for Sherlock, but he thought he understood, perhaps. Because he knew John. And because he thought he understood, because he knew John, because he loved John, he kept his silence.

John sighed again, rubbing his nose from the bridge downward with his index finger and thumb. Then he shook his head and returned his gaze to the window, crossing his arms again, looking distant, looking regretful. Looking not at London, Sherlock realized, but back into memories.

He shifted slightly, putting his hand on the small of John's back, keeping the contact gentle, light but consistent. John was still for a long moment, then moved a bit, Sherlock letting his arm follow the movement, maintaining the touch. John closed the distance between them only a little, not quite standing against Sherlock, but close enough that his left shoulder brushed Sherlock's chest and arm.

Sherlock let his hand settle more comfortably on John's back and John leaned into him the barest amount more, his body warm against Sherlock's. They stayed that way, in silence, gazing out the window across the night and the city, with its lights and its humming traffic and its distance sirens, for quite some time.


	6. Browning

(February 4th, 2011)

John was glad to be going home, glad it was Friday. He wasn't on the Saturday rotation this week, which he was also happy about, because they'd done one of their monthly late Friday drop-in clinics again and he was past tired. It made for a long day, twelve hours of dealing with routine complaints and some issues that were more serious and would require specialists and repeat visits.

He smiled ruefully to himself when he realized that a twelve-hour day in Afghanistan would have been a short day.

 _Going soft, Watson_ , he told himself, adjusting the grocery bag in his arms as he walked up Baker Street toward the flat, searching in his coat pocket for his keys.

The day had been made a bit longer by the shopping list that Sherlock had sent him, one item at a time, spaced out across the day, presumably as the genius he called his partner realized what they needed. Of course, Sherlock couldn't just get it all himself; he would point out, if pressed, that John had to be out later that evening anyway, and it was no trouble for him to stop off at the shops on his way home.

No trouble at all.

Particularly not for Sherlock.

The first text had read:

_Tea. SH._

The second, not long after:

_Milk. SH._

It had then been a couple of hours until the next instalment, and Sherlock had actually called that time.

"Very funny _, John_ ," he'd said to John's voicemail. "I found it. What _is_ your obsession with this? It's quite unhealthy, you know. And we need more sugar, so buy that too."

John grinned at the memory – he _knew_ Sherlock enjoyed the little challenge of finding the tea sugar tin. Although he'd got himself in trouble the previous week by hiding it in Mrs. Hudson's. Apparently, Sherlock actually had compunctions against going into their landlady's flat uninvited, which had surprised John to no small extent. He certainly had no boundaries when it came to John – he never really had – and it fascinated John to learn that Sherlock drew lines and where those lines were.

He'd been creatively reprimanded for that the following night, when he hadn't really expected it, and had learned that Sherlock had a strong propensity for patience that John wouldn't have anticipated. Fortunately, at least, John didn't particularly mind this type of exquisite torture, especially when it left them both gasping and collapsed against one another. John, worn out, had slept very well that night.

He grinned again, shaking his head, finally locating his keys while dodging another pedestrian.

Another text, later, had read:

 _And those biscuits with chocolate on_. _SH._

John was amazed by Sherlock's inability to remember the word HobNob. It wasn't as though it was long or difficult to say, but he continually referred to them as "those biscuits with chocolate on", although if he wanted plain ones, it was "those biscuits with chocolate on, but without the chocolate". Surely getting the name of the biscuits couldn't be more difficult?

_Oh and bread. SH._

_Mrs. Hudson wants kale. And carrots. SH._

_We need carrots, too. SH._

_And tea. Did I say that already? SH._

_Beans. SH._

_And soup. SH._

_Don't get the bread from the store, get it from the bakery. The store bread is foul. And smells of mould. SH._

John knew this last was absolutely not true, but Sherlock preferred the bakery bread, although he'd have to suffer because the bakery closed two hours before John saw the last of his patients and Sherlock probably knew that, too,.

He was amused by Sherlock's insistence about appending his initials to the end of each text, as though the "message from Sherlock" alert might not be enough to tell John who it was, and as though anyone else would send these sorts of jumbled and disjointed messages and expect him to understand and obey them.

The list had kept going in about ten to fifteen minute increments until finally Sherlock had been satisfied or had become distracted with something else. John had been able to jot down a coherent list and pick all of it up. It hadn't taken too long, but he'd have to do a proper shop the next day, after making himself a decent list. Sherlock's attention span regarding what they needed was non-existent unless he happened to want something specific. John knew they needed more than the haphazard items on the Sherlock-list.

He let himself into the house, delivering Mrs. Hudson's small order of vegetables, then climbed the steeps stairs to his own flat, entertaining fantasies about an escalator or a lift or perhaps just Sherlock coming downstairs and carrying him up. Or at least taking the bag of groceries.

John grinned to himself again. The latter was unlikely.

He stepped into the flat and stopped up short, eyes widening quickly, looking around in confused shock.

It was a disaster.

Not a typical Sherlock's-been-working-and-something-exploded disaster, because that was usually accompanied by some very mysterious and probably noxious odours and Sherlock either trying to look completely innocent (one expression he could never quite perfect) or grabbing John and launching into an excited explanation that never seemed to start precisely at the beginning, but partway through, as if John had been there the whole time and had been privy to what had happened.

But this time, the flat looked more like it had fallen victim to a tornado.

Or a ransacking.

John checked their locks quickly, but they'd been fine when he'd unlocked them and they had no scratches or marks on them. He glanced about again – the cushions had been pulled off of both chairs and the couch, every available drawer yanked open, the rug that had been under the coffee table now overturned and lying on said coffee table, the couch pulled away from its position against the wall, both chairs moved, the books on the bookshelves haphazardly removed, tossed on the floor or shuffled around on the shelves.

It appeared whatever had been in any drawer had been removed, so there were all manner of papers and pens strewn about, as well as odds and ends, and John noted, scooping to clean these up quickly, several small bottles of lube they kept secreted about the flat in case of "emergencies".

"Sherlock?" he called, feeling a stab of unease, because it was likely this was his partner's doing, but he couldn't rule out that someone had broken in. It wouldn't be Mycroft or his people, not with this amount of mess. They'd have put everything back precisely and would have timed it for when Sherlock wasn't home.

It had the look of a drugs bust, but there were no police in evidence, and John would have heard Sherlock complaining to Lestrade by now or seen both of them with their heads bent over a case file, ignoring the other officers who were ostensibly searching the flat for drugs that weren't there.

Although, after the last time, Lestrade might be a bit suspicious. After all, he'd found that tin of white powder that been hidden away rather well. He'd been a bit taken aback when John and Sherlock had both collapsed on the couch when he'd presented it to them, roaring with laughter. John didn't think he'd forget the expression on the DI's face when he realized it was simple sugar.

"Although addictive and toxic in large quantities," John had managed to point out between laughter, Sherlock laughing so hard beside him he'd gone gaspingly silent, tears streaming down his cheeks, "It's not actually considered illegal."

This didn't have the same overtones.

"Sherlock?" John called nervously again. "You here?"

He heard a suspicious crash from their bedroom and winced at the sound of something breaking. A moment later, Sherlock was striding out, an accusatory look on his face, his grey eyes gleaming, bright and sharp. He was shockingly paler than normal, but with two bright spots on his cheeks as though he'd been exerting himself. Looking around the flat, this seemed to be the case.

"Where is it?" Sherlock snapped, striding over to John, his long legs closing the distance between them easily.

"Um, where is what?" John managed, trying to catch up, to think of something Sherlock would be looking for. He'd already found the sugar tin, and that scarcely made him angry, even if he feigned annoyance.

"Your gun, John! Where's your gun!"

"Um–" John started, caught off guard, adjusting the grocery bag in his arms. With a huff, Sherlock snatched it and put it aside on the floor, blocking John's access to it with his body. "Um, what? Why do you need my gun?"

"I don't!" Sherlock snapped. "Where is it?"

"What's wrong with yours?"

"John!" Sherlock shouted, grabbing John by the shoulders, startling the doctor but not avoiding John's bad shoulder. He spun John around, so their positions were reversed, and leaned in close, grey eyes flashing.

"Tell me where it is!"

"It's with the passports, Sherlock," John managed to reply, still trying to catch up.

"You always kept it in the bedroom closet!" Sherlock shot back, accusingly, as if John had moved it just to thwart him.

"Yes, but–"

Sherlock didn't let him finish, striding away, clattering up the stairs to John's old bedroom, now the spare bedroom. John followed him quickly, shedding his coat once in the bedroom, watching Sherlock drag the dresser away from the wall and crouch down in a fluid movement, fingers working around the edges of the small panel that came loose to reveal a tiny and hidden storage space. John had discovered it early on and had been secretly disappointed that there was no forgotten treasure stored in it, but it made a handy place for their passports and other important documentation that needed to be kept out of easy sight. He'd even purchased a small locking cash box, more for his own peace of mind, since it could probably be easily broken into with a hammer.

Sherlock pulled out the shoe box in which John kept his unloaded Browning and turned to glare at John, as if this whole sequence of events was somehow his fault.

"Why did you move it?" he snapped.

John made a helpless gesture with one hand.

"I did it between the last fake drugs bust and the one before. They never look behind the dresser, and I'm not really supposed to have it, you know."

"If by 'not really' you mean 'not at all'," Sherlock replied in a cool voice.

John frowned – was _that_ was this was about? His misappropriation of his service revolver? And this was coming from Sherlock?

"What–" he started to ask.

"You could have injured someone with this!" Sherlock snapped, tucking the box beneath his right arm, holding himself with his right side slightly angled away from John, as if John was going to try leaping at him and snagging the box back. John knew full well that wouldn't work; Sherlock's reactions were as quick or quicker than his own, particularly when he was edgy about something.

"Um, yes, it's a _gun_ ," John said. "Which is why it's stored out of sight and unloaded. Sherlock, what is this about?"

Sherlock strode past him, clattering back down the stairs and John followed fast, starting to feel angry to cover his confusion.

"Sherlock!"

In the living room, amidst the scatter of cushions and the displaced rug, Sherlock spun back to face him.

"Why did you keep it?" he demanded.

"What?"

"Why did you keep it, John? I know you heard me correctly!"

John stopped up short, anger fading again to confusion.

"What– I don't know. I suppose it made me feel safer. I'm used to having it."

"Safer," Sherlock said flatly. "You were shot and it made you feel safer."

"Yeah, I didn't shoot myself," John pointed out. "I'm a hell of a marksman, but not that good. And yeah, safer, why not? It's not as though Afghanistan has a monopoly on danger. You _have_ met some of the people you apprehend, right? And some of the people you work with? And yourself?"

"You hardly knew me or any of them when you came back," Sherlock snarled.

"Yes, but you don't have a monopoly on bad guys either, Sherlock. Really, what's going on? Why are you suddenly so upset about this?"

Sherlock jabbed his left index finger accusingly toward the telly, which was off, the screen black and blank, as if this explained anything whatsoever. John followed the gesture, then looked back, more confused.

"You have nightmares still, and flashback sometimes. You still have friends over there who could be injured and killed at any moment, complete uncertainty, and you just have to live with that."

John nodded. He knew that. He did, as Sherlock pointed out, live with that.

"Yes, I know," he said. "But so?"

"So why did you keep your gun? A man with nightmares and flashbacks with a weapon? Do you think this is reasonable?"

"Sorry, you're asking me what's reasonable?" John snapped. "Where has this come from all of a sudden? You've never had a problem with me having a gun before. You've even brought it for me on cases!"

Sherlock stared at him as though he'd suddenly started speaking an incomprehensible foreign language, then threw himself into his chair, sans cushions, with a huff. He put the box on his lap, keeping both long-fingered hands closed protectively over it.

John sighed, righting the cushions of his own chair and sat down, pointedly indicating that he was sitting away from the gun and whatever Sherlock thought he might do with it.

"I watched a show," Sherlock muttered.

John blinked, still quite confused.

"What, on the telly?"

"Yes, of course on the telly, John! That isn't important!"

"So what is important?" John asked. "What was the show about?"

Sherlock slouched down further, his expression suddenly shuttered in the way John recognized as wanting to say something while, at the same time, not wanting to say it. John rested his hands comfortably on his stomach, lacing his fingers together, waiting. Whatever it was, it was enough to have caused Sherlock to nearly destroy their flat in a hunt for John's gun.

"A documentary," Sherlock said shortly, glowering at John as though it was his fault somehow that Sherlock had seen a documentary. "About wounded war veterans."

 _Ah_ , John thought. _So it's not that he's angry. It's that he's upset._

For all his genius, Sherlock was like a child when it came to dealing with emotional upheaval, and tended toward dramatics – although John would never say this out loud, for fear of what kind of dramatics would then be aimed at him.

John shifted, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was unfamiliar with the documentary, although it didn't surprise him that one had been made, and he was not at all unfamiliar with being a wounded war vet.

"And what about it?" he asked.

Sherlock shifted, keeping his hands on the shoebox with the gun in it, chewing on his lower lip.

"I didn't know about – what it was like. For you."

"No," John agreed. "But then, I don't really talk about it. It wasn't particularly fun."

Sherlock gave a vehement nod, his eyes narrowing. _So now he's upset that I didn't tell him?_ John thought, repressing a smile.

"You're not useless," Sherlock stated firmly.

John's lips twitched.

"I know, Sherlock. You've told me that many times. Although, you've also told me many times how wrong I am. But I have patients here who thank me on a regular basis for helping them as well."

"But you weren't doing that. When you were injured."

"No," John agreed. "I was doing something calling 'recovering'. You may have heard of it?"

Sherlock shot him a dark look and John held up his hands in a pacifying gesture.

"But you were bored."

John sighed, dropping his hands again.

"Yes, of course I was bored. Seventy-two hours before I got back here, I'd been in the midst of a gun battle, then I was in surgery, then on a plane, then I was suddenly back in England with nowhere to go and no job and nothing to do but eat morphine and sleep. How could I not have been bored?"

Sherlock gave a single, curt nod.

"The programme. That's what it talked about. The ones without families, in halfway houses, suddenly useless."

John sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Yeah," he agreed. The memories came rushing back – he didn't think about it much, but really, it had been only a year since he'd felt that horrible, crushing boredom, that sense of having no purpose other than to take up space and oxygen, that feeling of having had his skills shelved indefinitely so that he could do nothing of consequence.

The loneliness, the silence, the isolation.

Sherlock was watching him, grey eyes dark.

"John, some of those people, some of those men, shot themselves," he said quietly.

John drew a deep breath, nodding.

He remembered.

He'd woken up in the middle of an afternoon nap – he'd slept so much then for lack of anything better to do – to a gunshot. He'd managed to rouse himself quickly enough to be the second person at the scene, but it hadn't mattered, no one could have done anything. The man, a major – and a psychiatrist even – had put his own misappropriated gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

John could still smell the blood, see the carnage in the tiny, sterile, bedsit.

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his right fist against his left palm absently, nodding.

The psychiatrist hadn't been the only one, but the worst. Shouldn't he, of all people, have had the tools to deal with it? He'd lost his right arm at the elbow. He'd pulled the trigger with his left hand.

He remembered another young man, a kid really, twenty-two, had been out there only five weeks before having both of his legs ripped to shreds by a roadside bomb. Joking in their physiotherapy sessions, promising John he'd walk again someday, that a bunch of torn muscle and broken bones and nerve damage weren't going to keep _him_ off of his feet. He used to borrow John's cane and push his wheelchair around with it, telling John he was practicing with the cane for eventual future use.

He'd taken all of his sleeping medication and run himself a bath.

Sherlock was still watching him. His expression was so full John could barely read it, but he was fairly certain he knew what was coming.

"Did you want to?" Sherlock asked in a soft but inflectionless voice.

"Yes," John replied forthrightly.

When it was all so quiet. When it was just him, sitting in the tiny flat with Harry's second-hand phone as his only company, but even it was silent, because his sister wasn't going to call or visit and how many friends were still overseas, how many were dead? Too many. The rest, here, had moved on, didn't care, and he didn't know how to reach half of them in any case.

When he'd been nothing but an injured ex-soldier, not even a doctor anymore, because he couldn't walk properly and his shoulder hurt, ached, all of the time, when he slept, when he sat still, when he moved.

Sherlock looked away, then looked back, and there was such pain in his grey eyes that it stunned John, because he'd never seen anything quite so deep reflected in Sherlock's features.

"When?" Sherlock asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Only once," John said. Only once that he'd seriously considered it, but had thought about it on several occasions, when the silence and isolation pressed in too hard.

But only once, and he'd sat with the revolver that Sherlock was now holding in the box, and he understood why his partner was keeping it from him. He'd held the gun on his lap the way Sherlock was, but loaded and without the box. Sat and stared at the wall, the off-white wall with nothing on it, listening to the faint tick of his watch as it sliced seconds off of his life, seconds that were going nowhere. He'd rubbed the cold metal absently.

No need to wonder what it was like to get shot.

He already knew.

It was mostly heat he remembered. Heat at his shoulder, heat screaming out along his nerves. Then pain, pain when Tricia's hands closed over the wounds, pain in his ears as she yelled at him up close, pain as his muscles, torn to shreds, were subjected to pressure.

If she hadn't been there.

If she hadn't got to him so quickly.

If she hadn't been a surgeon herself.

Maybe if it just hadn't been her, yelling at him, her voice so familiar, so full of command, something to latch onto, something that made sense when nothing else had.

He had almost heard her again, in the silence of his tiny flat, in the nothingness, and had sat very still, hands on his gun.

Jamie had died, bullet through the neck. If only the person who had hit John had hit a few centimetres over.

Then he remembered.

_Please god, let me live.  
_

The desperate plea to a deity in which he scarcely believed anymore. Sitting alone in the bedsit, he thought:

_Why didn't you let me die?_

It would have been simpler.

Himself, Jamie, both dead from bullet wounds to the neck. Why not? Why just Jamie? Why had he gotten out lucky?

The thought had scared him, made him sick and angry at himself, and he'd looked down at the gun, stunned – shocked – to find himself holding it.

And his phone had rung.

"Johnny, it's me, I only have a couple minutes but I wanted to say hello, see how you are."

And he remembered: Jamie was dead, he was in England, and she was still over there. What would it be like for her if they'd both died? Because she was masking the pain in her voice well, but not well enough, not for him. Fooling everyone else, maybe, but not John.

When she'd rung off, he'd put the gun on the table in front of him and unloaded it carefully, then pushed himself to his feet, using his cane to steady himself, and found a shoebox that had been left behind by one of the flat's previous occupants.

Hopefully someone who had not shot him- or herself, who had moved on, regained his or her life, found some purpose again.

It hadn't stopped the crushing boredom, the loneliness, the sense of uselessness, but at least it gave him a reason not to make that last, final decision.

That had been – what? About three weeks before he'd run into Mike Stamford, who told him of a friend of his who was looking for a flatmate in the city.

"But even then, I had things to live for, Sherlock," John said, meeting his partner's gaze again. "More things now."

Sherlock held John's eyes, then closed his own eyes momentarily, fingers tightening somewhat on the box.

"I'm not going to hurt myself," John promised.

Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"I–" he started, then clamped his lips shut tightly.

"You what?" John asked gently.

If possible, the detective slouched even further down in his chair.

"I don't want to lose you, John," he muttered, his words somewhat indistinct.

John was shocked into immobility for a moment – it was not often he heard Sherlock admit to anything like that. It wasn't the same as "I love you", which still took him by surprise, even though he knew that now. This was Sherlock admitting to what – for him – amounted to weakness. John didn't see it that way, but he knew his partner did.

"You won't," John promised. "I don't want to lose you either."

At this, Sherlock sat up straight, quickly.

"I've never–" he started.

"Oh, you flirt with death by chemistry set explosion all the time, Sherlock," John said, feeling the atmosphere lighten just a touch. "But I'm not– Look, I'm not in danger of hurting myself. Not for over a year now."

He paused, smiling slightly.

"Believe me, living with you is entirely the opposite of boredom."

Sherlock stared at him, then huffed a sigh, expression still displeased.

"I promise, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment, then gave another curt nod, but at least, this time, his hold loosened somewhat on the box and the tension in his shoulders relaxed somewhat so that he sat a bit straighter.

"All right," Sherlock agreed, grey eyes still fixed on John.

John smiled, warmly. He thought about getting up and kissing Sherlock, but kept himself away from the gun deliberately, knowing Sherlock was still just on the verge of being convinced.

"Why don't you put that somewhere safe for awhile?" John suggested. "I'll get to work cleaning up in here. And next time you're worried about me, just come out and say it. I won't be upset about it."

Sherlock gave him a cool look, eyes slightly narrowed, then nodded. John went into the kitchen pointedly so that Sherlock could hide the gun for a few days and give himself some peace of mind. The doctor ignored all sounds coming from the rest of the flat, so he could truly say he didn't know where the Browning was, and set himself to straightening the disaster that they called their kitchen.


End file.
